A/N: This was a difficult chapter to write. I must have rewritten it like five times. We are at a point in the story where consequences are catching up to Tom.

WARNING: Violence and blood after the line break. A lot of it.

Blackfriars Bridge

August 5, 1943

Of all the Hogwarts subjects, Tom would have never guessed that Ancient Runes would end up being useful in the muggle world. The day One-Eye had sent him home after the killing of the unfortunate Fred, he'd gone straight to his trunk and looked for ways to shield himself in case of retaliation. If he couldn't cast magic without being threatened with expulsion, he would need something passive, something he could wear like a talisman.

He'd found the answer in his -brand new- NEWT level Ancient Runes book. Under the cover of Knockturn Alley's magic, he had inked a set of protection runes on his right arm, and reinforced them with a fixing charm: Ehwas, Eihwas, Ingwas, and Tiwas. According to the book, they would cast a protective sheen around him, while increasing his speed and strength as a last line of defence. Not as reliable as a good old Shield Charm, but they would do.

Yes, he could definitely hide in Knockturn Alley for a month, like a dog with its tail between its legs, but that wouldn't get him any closer to his goals, would it?

And just as well, for whatever amiability that had existed between Tom and the accountant before the incident was well and truly gone. The man no longer breathed down his neck, choosing to keep his distance instead, but this suited him, as no one was double-checking his numbers anymore.

On the other hand, Crowe's bullying had become threats in a matter of days, while the others pretended he wasn't even in the room. Yet no one touched him. Whether that was because of the runes, or because he seemed to be the boss's new favourite, he couldn't be sure. No one wanted to upset him or risk putting a toe out of line after what happened to Fred. So long as he had One-Eye's favour, Tom would be relatively safe.

One-Eye had made it obvious by bestowing little gifts on him in front of everyone, ensuring that Tom would always keep him in the loop, and the others would stay off his back. Cigarettes, clothes' coupons, a belt, even a whole bar of chocolate. He had no use for them, so he'd gotten Eric to sell them for him, but he'd kept the chocolate. That was insanely difficult to find.

Considering that his new coworkers were all probably plotting his demise, transactions with the younger teen had to be carried out in secrecy. Well, he used the term loosely, as Whalley had taken to wearing a ridiculous fedora and a yellow tie that made Tom cringe. The muggle stuck out like a sore thumb in the street.

However, the money Whalley could make for him wasn't the main reason why he had sought to reconnect with the other orphan.

It was information.

Tom had built a little network of spies at Hogwarts, so he constantly knew what was happening around him. One-Eye had warned him to watch his back, and he'd be a fool not to heed that warning.

Same game, different players. It was almost like being back in Slytherin house.

"I took yer room, 'ope ye don't mind," confessed Eric, taking a drag from a cigarette. It seemed everyone was smoking these days. "Didn't look like ye'd be coming back."

"I'm not."

"Good fer ye, I want out meself. Can't stand it there anymore."

"How's Stubbs?"

Whalley wrinkled his nose. "Pongy. Like he stuffs 'is knickers with fish guts."

Tom smirked. It was good to know the blond idiot was still miserable.

The West End was vastly different from the London Tom had grown up in. From their spot in a narrow side street in Piccadilly, he could see more buildings had survived here, and people walked around with a lighter step. Double-deckers, cars and shoppers bustled about. He could even make out a few GIs chatting up a group of smiling girls.

The overall mood was lighter, hopeful. In every corner, people seemed to be saying that Britain and her allies were winning.

As if on cue, Eric exhaled a large cloud of smoke and sighed, before looking up at Tom with bright eyes.

"When d'ye reckon it'll be over? The war? Should be soon, yeh? Can't go on forever."

Tom thought of Grindelwald. The Dark Lord had been wreaking havoc since the 20s on his quest to rule over the muggles and free wizardkind from the Statute of Secrecy, and it didn't look like he was slowing down. If his muggle counterpart was half as determined, they could be looking at several more years of the world crumbling to pieces beneath their feet.

Maybe Grindelwald should take over the muggles, after all. Bring them to their knees. After everything he'd seen, he'd be doing them a favour. Support for him had been steadily growing in continental Europe and Scandinavia, where even witches and wizards suffered the consequences of living in occupied territory.

"I don't know," he replied instead, staring off into the street. In the gutter, an old edition of the newspaper boldly declared that Il Duce had resigned, right after Rome had been bombed. He'd heard excited whispers on the street about how they'd knocked the Italians out of the war, and the Germans would soon follow. They all sounded so proud that their side had left Hamburg in ruins just a week before, surely the Nazis were about to break, as well?

Tom wasn't so optimistic.

Unwilling to continue the conversation, he rummaged in his jacket and fished out a few shillings, offering them to the younger muggle, who looked crestfallen at Tom's less than enthusiastic opinion.

"What's this?" the teen asked, suspicion colouring his voice.

"Your cut."

Eric's eyes went wide. "Blimey, thanks."

Tom had tried the stick. He wanted to see what he could get from the carrot.

Whalley took the offered money and pocketed it, still looking bewildered. Tom was trying to decide when would be the right time to start questioning the muggle, when Eric beat him to it.

"Can I ask ye somethin'?"

Tom assessed the muggle, wondering how far he could take this little experiment before running out of patience. "What do you want to know?"

"Where's all this stuff coming from?"

Whalley was fidgeting, eyes darting here and there, looking for an escape route even as he tested the waters. He'd never dared to question Tom before.

Tom thought about his answer, how much he should give away to get the younger orphan on his side.

"Did you hear what happened?"

"I 'eard," said Eric, eyeing him warily.

Tom painted a grimace on the canvas that was his face. "I didn't know it would end like that," he said, and for once he meant it. "I only did my job, and Joe has been giving me odds and ends since."

"Ye didn't know it was Fred?"

"I saw numbers that didn't match, and let the accountant know. One-Eye just happened to hear about it." It was perfectly true, should Eric go asking around.

"They make it sound like ye snitched on purpose."

They? Now he was getting somewhere.

"I didn't mean to snitch on anyone, Whalley. It looked like a clerical error."

Now that was a lie, but whatever poker face he'd made, Eric believed him, because he relaxed.

"All the lads are nervous. They've all taken somethin', see?"

"Figured as much," replied Tom. "But I don't see why I should point it out."

Eric nodded slowly, processing the words. "I'll let them know. Maybe they'll…."

"They'll what, Whalley?" prompted Tom, after Eric trailed off and didn't look like he was about to continue his train of thought.

"They whisper, the other spivs. Fred was their friend."

"What do they whisper?"

The order was implicit. Tom bit his tongue and willed himself to soften his voice. It would be no good if he spooked the muggle right now.

Whalley's Adam's apple bobbed, and he looked around. "They're really mad. They want Crowe to teach ye a lesson they says, but he can't do it, or One-Eye will take it out on everyone."

Tom pictured Crowe and his knife. He'd been threatening to use it on him since day one, so that wasn't new. It was a nasty piece of steel, military issue. He'd always known he had to watch out for the brute, but it sounded like the others were egging him on now. "But if I tell them t'was a mistake, maybe they'll back off a bit!"

Tom's eye twitched at the accusation that he'd made a mistake. "This isn't the schoolyard, Whalley."

Eric scoffed. "I'm jus' tryin' t'help."

"Why? We're not friends."

"No, but we grew up t'gether, yeh? Gotta count for somefing."

It didn't, but Tom wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whalley's loyalty was an unexpected bonus that he could use down the road.

"I suppose it won't hurt to try," Tom relented. "Let me know if you hear anything else. I might have an extra coin for you."

Whalley flicked away the butt of his cigarette, and tipped his hat. Tom left first, stalking through the sunny street.

One-Eye's iron grip on his men might be protecting him for now, but he couldn't count on it lasting forever. It drove a wedge into his plan of disarticulating the little gang; he couldn't risk taking out the head and having to deal with the body in the aftermath.

For the next few days, Tom remained on high alert, going back to Knockturn while the sun was still up. Usually it took him an hour to reach the Leaky Cauldron; during that time, every little noise made him flinch and reach for his wand, always a false alarm. Tom knew he was being paranoid most of the time, but better safe than sorry.

Tonight, a shipment of crates filled with Whisky bottles had thrown a wrench into his routine.

Trepidation had seized him when the accountant had asked him and a few extra hands to stay behind and sort them out. It meant he would have to rush through London as fast as he could before blackout. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been held back on purpose, even if he was the bookkeeper and it made sense for him to stay.

And so he had left headquarters as the sky began to bleed, darkness finally catching up with him as he hurried through Blackfriars, the only light coming from the pale moon and the few walkers still outside who carried lamps, all of them pointed at the pavement. Their steps echoed through the empty streets, so Tom couldn't tell where they were coming from. It unnerved him each time he had to cross an alley.

Blackfriars Bridge lay in ruins before him. Bent metal and debris that had never quite been cleared blocked most of the road, so that Tom was forced to walk around it. He'd tried to follow different paths each day in case he was still being tailed, but tonight he might have made a mistake. Blackfriars was not his usual route, and it was proving difficult to traverse.

"Merlin's saggy…" he cursed, blindly skipping through the rubble.

He made it to a higher street, still cursing under his breath, so concentrated on not tripping that he nearly had a heart attack when he lifted his gaze. Up ahead, the sight of a dark figure made him halt. A man with a lamp was walking briskly in the opposite direction. Tom fingered his wand and tried to see through the darkness, but the shadows cast by the lamp obscured the man's face. He seemed to be in as much of a rush as Tom was.

He was debating if he should pull out his wand, when he heard something else. Footsteps, approaching fast from behind.

Tom whirled around, wand in hand, just as someone collided with him. He felt a sharp pain on his arm, another on his leg, before grabbing a hold of the man.

The man moved fast, twisting his wand arm hard so that his wand clattered to the ground.

Tom felt the runes react, giving him an edge over the attacker. He pushed him away, and the man stumbled. For a second, he saw the glint of a blade, and then the man was back.

They struggled for the knife. It slid into Tom's hands, and he turned it around, bringing it down on the man. He hit something hard. Then pulled it back and did it again, and again, not seeing where it sank.

As suddenly as the man appeared, he stopped moving, and slid down to the pavement.

Tom stumbled back, breathing hard, heart beating madly, and nearly tripped over his own feet. In the dark, he couldn't see his attacker's features, but he could hear it.

The gurgle and rattle of death.

He must have hit the neck.

Fucking bastard had tried to kill him.

"Accio wand!"

He heard, rather than saw, his wand arcing through the air. The moment he felt it land on his hand, he took off. The man with the lamp had fled.

Shoes pounding on the pavement, he skipped over debris and jumped over craters, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dying man.

Tom finally stopped when he reached Somerset, collapsing against a ruined wall to catch his breath, his heart still hammering like a jackrabbit's.

His hands were stained scarlet. He couldn't see them, but they felt slick and warm so he could imagine. His forearms, his shirt felt wet, drenched in his own blood and the muggle's. He was sure even his face was dripping. An involuntary shudder ran through his body.

Tom had been responsible for two deaths before this, but never with his own hands. He hadn't intended to kill Myrtle Warren, he hadn't meant for Fred to die. He'd had no idea killing someone like this could be so messy. Moreover, he didn't know who he'd killed. He had not stuck around to verify, but those had not been the noises of someone who would get back up. Had that been Crowe? The size checked out.

He was glad for the blackout, for once. If anyone saw him like this, the muggle coppers would be on him in a second, and he wasn't sure he could get away with attacking one of those.

The large gulps of breath settled him enough that he finally registered the pain. His arm and leg throbbed. There were cuts on his hands, where he'd fought for the knife. They felt deep and now that the adrenaline was starting to die down, they were really beginning to hurt.

Dittany. He had purchased dittany for his potions kit. He just needed to get to his room.

But first, he needed to clean-up. He had seen some really gruesome stuff in Knockturn, to the point that he wouldn't stand out, but Tom couldn't walk through Diagon Alley looking like this.

Magic could get him in trouble, but at that point he was beyond caring.

"Tergeo," he whispered, pointing at himself. He felt the odd sensation of sticky blood clearing from his face and hands. Only then did he notice he was still holding the dagger. It glinted menacingly at him, just before blood welled on his palm and stained it red again.

The urge to throw it away died as quickly as it came. It didn't look like Crowe's, and he wanted to find its owner. He needed to know who had sent him.

He rushed the rest of the way with his head down, past Covent Garden, into Charing Cross, and through Diagon Alley. It was late enough that there didn't seem to be anyone out and about.

Once in Knockturn, whatever adrenaline he had left rushed out of him, and for the second time that night he stumbled and collapsed against a wall. His mind was still catching up with his body. He could have been killed tonight, and the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. It had all happened so fast, he could not even remember half the things he'd done.

That was the thing about fights. They had the tendency to turn you into a being of pure instinct: it had to say something about him that his first instinct was to kill rather than run.

Tom knew there was something wrong with him, something broken, but not so broken that he didn't know what it was. He knew what he lacked, because he knew people: their innerworkings, the emotional baggage they carried, their mundane fears and desires. Tom just didn't function like them.

He went home in a daze, setting one foot in front of the other mechanically. The experience had thrown a wrench into his mind, his thoughts galloping over each other so that he couldn't focus on anything except on making it to his room.

As usual, the Dutch girl was there, leaning against the railing, puffing away. A splash of normalcy in an otherwise turbulent night.

"Hallo."

Tom halted in front of his door. "Evening," he replied softly. Their daily ritual. It shocked him how collected he sounded, despite his racing thoughts and the blood staining his clothes.

"You alright?" she asked, peering at him. "You look a bit rough."

Tom frowned. Well if that wasn't the understatement of the decade. He had no time for this shit. "I'm fine. Goodnight."

"Goede nacht!"

The yellow lights flared on the moment Tom stepped into his room. He threw the dagger that nearly killed him on the bedside table, and then clutched his wand. Holding it tightly grounded him. He'd become good at finding small comforts. Sometimes they were all he had. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose to stop his mind from spiralling out of control.

It's over.

You're safe.

You're alive.

You're still alive.

You're fine.

He opened his eyes, breathing more calmly, and focused on his wand; he could see the blood now, staining the pale yew. Losing it tonight under such dire circumstances was unforgivable. He could sidestep a Disarming Spell, but duelling was not a contact sport. Hogwarts would never teach him how to fight in close quarters, he'd have to learn that on his own.

His leg throbbed, reminding him he had yet to take care of his wounds. He stumbled to his trunk, wincing as he knelt, and fished through his supplies until he found the dittany. Applying it to his hands left behind white lines, but he stopped leaving smudges of blood everywhere. Next he pulled off the ruined coat and shirt, grimacing when the fabric grazed the wound, not even slipping off the wand holster, before inspecting the cut.

It crossed his upper arm, and it looked deep. Blood was still seeping from it; in the muggle world it would require several stitches.

The dittany closed the worst of it, and left behind a bright pink line. Last, he took care of his leg. Another angry pink line on his thigh, another reminder of his carelessness.

Tom stood on shaky legs and caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was gaunt, paler than usual, its eyes too bright, and the hair too messy. He stripped and took a hot shower, attempting to wash the night away, along with the blood staining the water pink.

He stared at the stark white lines on his hands, entranced. They would fade, in time. He had to move up his plans. He'd been too caught up just surviving the summer, and lost sight of the bigger goal. No more. He would buy the ticket to Hangleton in the morning, screw the muggles.

He was towelling his hair dry, when an official looking owl tapped his window, and a completely different wave of panic gripped him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The bloody bird glared at him with its yellow eyes, and still Tom hesitated to open the window. He'd used magic. Twice. Neither spell had been defensive.

The owl screeched and flapped its wings, making a racket outside.

"Alright! Alright! Circe, I'm coming."

Tom unlatched the window, and the flying nightmare hopped on his bed imperiously. The letter had the Ministry seal stamped on the front. He reached for it with a trembling hand, and shoved the owl away when it tried to peck him. Bloody arrogant creatures.

The letter felt heavy in his hand.

"At least it's not the Hogwarts crest," he mumbled, tearing it open to read its contents.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We have received intelligence that a Summoning Charm was used in the vicinity of a muggle, this evening at forty minutes past eight.

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offence under section 13 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays!

A warning. Just a standard warning. He let out the breath he'd been holding and sagged on the bed with relief. They had noticed the Summoning Charm, but not the Wiping Spell. Interesting. Had there been no muggles around Somerset to trigger the trace? If that was the case, then the man had still been alive when Tom summoned his wand and ran.

Just thinking about it made him feel like he was suffocating all over again. He needed air.

"This blasted room is too small," he cursed, standing up and going for the door.

He stepped outside and leaned on the balcony, the cool air making him sigh with relief despite his trembling hands.

"Oh, you're back," said a cheerful voice in an odd accent.

Tom looked up at the Dutch girl, and she took it as an invitation to approach. She leaned on the railing next to him, and offered him her pack. She was down to four cigarettes.

He'd never really smoked before. He pictured One-Eye, blowing through dozens of cigarettes to soothe his nerves after shooting a man point-blank. "What the hell…" he muttered, and then he took one. "How difficult can it be?"

It'd been a stressful day.

"Take a pull, but a short one," she advised, as he put it between his lips and she lit it for him with her wand, which meant she was at least seventeen. "You don't want a cough."

Tom did as instructed, and was surprised at how easily he took to it. Warmth filled his mouth, and spread to the rest of his body. He felt his nerves settle, and his hands stopped shaking.

"Thank you," he said at last, after expelling the smoke. "Tom. You?"

The girl smiled and her bright blue eyes sparkled. He'd noticed she was beautiful on the first day that she tried to talk to him. She was tall, had dark brown hair, and curves in all the right places. He'd been busy, not blind.

"Vera. Leuk je te ontmoeten."

Tom gave her a look, uncomprehending. She laughed, a musical sound.

"Nice to meet you," she translated, leaning closer to him, and touching her fingers to the corner of her mouth. "I have been watching you."

She wastes no time, this one. "I've noticed," he replied, taking another drag from his cigarette and shifting so that she wasn't quite pressing against him.

Vera noticed the movement and looked critically at him. "You were hurt. Are you alright?" she asked again, her voice suddenly serious.

"It's nothing."

"Want to share?"

Tom grimaced. "Not particularly."

"Mmm. Private man. Very well. Maybe after a few more nights then, sharing these?" she asked, shaking the pack, her voice slipping back into a purr. "It gets lonely here. Shame I only have a few left."

Merlin, she was relentless. If anything, she was doing a fantastic job of keeping his mind away from the night's events. Today's attempt on his life must have really rattled him, because he couldn't help himself.

"I can get you one of those for free," he blurted, glancing at the nearly empty pack.

"Oh? Wherever from?"

Tom shrugged his uninjured arm, the image of nonchalance. "I know a bloke, who knows a bloke."

Vera laughed again. "Ok. Tomorrow?"

He considered her for a moment. He'd already wasted enough time with the muggles, he needed to focus. Sure she would make a much more pleasing distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. Which was why he was utterly baffled when he finally nodded, like his body had stopped listening to sense. "Tomorrow," he agreed.

"See you then," she said over her shoulder, hair fanning out as she turned around to leave. A sweet flowery scent lingered. She sauntered away, swaying her hips on purpose.

It wasn't until Vera closed her door behind her that Tom realised he'd followed her with his gaze.

Fuck.

The next morning Tom swept into One-Eye Joe's den like a stormcloud, razor-sharp focus on a single goal.

He'd been unable to sleep. Nightmares had plagued him whenever he managed to close his eyes for a few minutes, jerking him awake again; the infernal gurgle crept into his dreams as soon as he drifted off, and he cursed himself for letting it affect him so much. Warren's death hadn't shaken him like this. Then again, she was dead before he could fully grasp what had happened, unlike the muggle, who had struggled to breathe while he fled.

The whole night had been a rollercoaster of anger, hatred and exhaustion that culminated in a decision: he had to find out who was behind the attack, and he needed to make them pay, or he would never rest easy again.

The muggles noticed the dark aura surrounding him and gave him a wide berth. Tom made a sweep of the room, trying to figure out if he had managed to kill one of them last night, but all the usual faces were present. However, they looked shocked to see him, especially Crowe, who was pale as a sheet.

That's right, bastards, I'm still here.

Tom marched up to the boss' desk and threw the dagger on the surface with a loud clatter. The muggles froze at his audacity, and One-Eye stared at him coldly.

"What is the meaning of this?" he whispered calmly.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "I was attacked last night."

"By whom?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "It was blackout."

One-Eye appeared mildly annoyed at the outburst. "Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

It didn't even cross Tom's mind to lie. He was surrounded by crooks and murderers that wanted him dead. They had to know he would not go down easily.

One-Eye nodded, and his shoulders relaxed, satisfied by his answer. "Good."

The muggle swept his hand over the table and picked up the dagger, ran his fingers over the wooden handle, the hilt, and the dried blood burrowed in the grooves on the blade. "This is Italian," he grunted with a pensieve frown. "Military issue, probably a former soldier."

Tom frowned. The Italians would not go after him, they had no reason to. He knew from listening to the chatter in headquarters that Joe's superior and the Italians were constantly disputing territory, but Tom was too low on the food chain to warrant an attack like last night's.

"Keep it," said One-Eye, handing him back the dagger. "As a trophy."

Tom stared at the blade, and finally took it back. A souvenir of sorts.

One-Eye stood up to address the room, the occupants still in shock.

"Listen, all of you," he thundered, drawing all pairs of eyes to him. "Those macaroni bastards think they can mess with our lad, but we protect each other. We're gonna teach them a lesson."

Tom nearly rolled his eyes; there he went again with his bloody lessons. The knife might be Italian, but Tom was certain his coworkers were behind it, somehow, and their leader was none the wiser. Maybe One-Eye didn't have as strong a grip as he thought. Maybe his control was beginning to slip, if shooting someone had such an effect on him.

"Tom, ye get out of town for a few days, ye hear? I don't want ye around for this. They're gonna be looking for ye, for killin' one of their dogs."

"I shall make myself scarce," said Tom with a barely disguised scowl. He already had his destination; he'd purchased the ticket first thing in the morning.

Unexpectedly, the muggle turned around and tossed him a few pounds, along with a fresh pack of cigarettes. He'd been planning to steal one for Vera, but this saved him the trouble.

"Buy yerself a ticket, soon as ye can. Scram."

Tom raised an eyebrow at the money. There was enough to afford an inn for a week. Whoever said crime never pays was an idiot.

He made a sweep of the room as One-Eye waved at the others to move out. As he left the building, he crossed paths with Crowe and smirked. Crowe's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. The short visit had confirmed Tom's suspicions.

If in fact the attacker had belonged to the Italian gang, he would have had no motive to go after Tom. Who sent a hitman after an unknown bookkeeper? No, the truth had been written on Crowe's face. They hadn't expected Tom to turn up that morning, they had known something was going to happen the night before, they must have come to an agreement with their rivals to throw attention off themselves. Now One-Eye was going to start a fight with a dangerous gang over nothing.

Down the road, Tom paused to think. If he played his cards right, he could use this blunder as an opportunity to take down two birds with one stone. The police wouldn't raid headquarters; according to Whalley, they were in Spot's pocket, but the Italians were another matter entirely. They were already embroiled in a turf war, all they needed was a little push. The Italians could be the answer to his problem.

They had the manpower to land a devastating blow to One-Eye's gang. They could take out Crowe and the others, and Tom wouldn't have to lift a finger. All he had to do was tip them off about the location of their den. A cleancut revenge.

He smirked. This plan could work.

But first, he would take a short holiday. He'd be going back to Hogwarts soon, and this was the first time he felt he could relax a little. No rest for the wicked, and all that.

The train would leave the next morning, so Tom returned to Knockturn Alley to pack a small bag, and plan his little trip. He took a different route on the way back, as he was not ready to walk by Blackfriars again and see what became of the body. Someone must have found it by now, and Scotland Yard would be on it. Would the Ministry be fruitlessly looking for someone to Obliviate?

Surely the muggles would not be able to pin the murder on him? There was a possible witness but it had been too dark to identify anyone. He'd taken the dagger with him, but if it was military issued then there must be dozens of them floating around the Black Market. Besides, if he'd learned anything from the Chamber incident, it was that law enforcement was always overloaded with cases, so they would look for the fastest solution; they would point to gang violence and call it a day. He'd probably be fine.

For once, it was Tom leaning on the railing later that evening, waiting for nightfall. Part of him had expected to find the Dutch girl there, waiting for him as usual, but that was an arrogant thought, even for him.

His list of tasks to accomplish before summer's end kept getting more and more complicated. All he had wanted was money to survive for a couple of months, and to find whatever relatives he might have left. It was a distant possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

Now he was plotting the demise of a gang that had tried to kill him.

He sighed. Maybe Stubbs was right and his mere presence did stir up all sorts of trouble.

Whalley had turned to crime. A man had been killed as collateral in his scheme. The gang he worked for had sent a hitman after him as revenge; a rival hitman, probably trying to cover their tracks. Criminal masterminds, they were not. Now the hitman was dead by his own hand, and that had sparked a fight between rival gangs that would not have happened otherwise.

If he was lucky, they would take each other out while he was in Hangleton. But when had he ever relied on luck?

Alas, he would track down the Italians when he got back and give them One-Eye's location. Then he would call it even. Quit while he was ahead, so to speak. Maybe he would even give Whalley a heads up, for old time's sake. This would be so much easier if he could just curse them into oblivion.

Social mores dictated that he should feel… something. Guilt, horror, anxiousness… but there was nothing. Those people had made their choices, just like him. The difference was that his choices were better, and he would outlive them. He would not feel guilt over that.

Tom heard the click of a door, and turned. Whatever it was that Vera did all day, she left her room just as the sun went down, and paused when she spotted him. She looked surprised, but glad.

At least someone was happy to see him.

"Hallo there," she said as she approached. "Fancy seeing you here."

Tom smirked, his thoughts not vanished but put on hold. He reached into his jacket and retrieved the little box that One-Eye had given him that morning.

"Free, as promised," he said as a greeting.

She reached for it with a smile. "And the good brand, too. Where did you get these?"

"I told you, I know people."

Vera took one and offered the box to him. He didn't want to develop a dependency on the things, but one more should be fine. Their conversation should last no longer than what it took to finish it.

"You're home early," she said, while she lit both cigarettes.

"I took the day off," he replied. "I'm going on a little trip tomorrow."

"Business or pleasure?"

"I'm visiting family, actually."

Now there was a sentence he never thought he'd say.

"That's nice. When will you be back?"

"So many questions. I don't even know you," he teased. Two can play this game, Miss Vera.

"Do you want to?"

She boldly leaned against him and ran a hand down his front, stopping at his belt.

Tom caught the wandering hand and twisted it away, not painfully, but firmly.

He wasn't exactly vain, but Tom knew what he looked like. It wasn't uncommon for female students to hound him at school, but none of them were as straightforward as this one. He had to admit it was liberating to know he wouldn't cross paths with her at Hogwarts.

However, he could not be distracted right now. A clear mind was important when meeting long lost relatives.

"Not tonight."

She pouted at him, but relented, going back to puffing smoke with a little smile.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked, miffed.

"You didn't say no," she smirked.

He was used to rebuffing advances, but Vera's confidence was something else. It made him curious. He had to divert the situation before she managed to change his mind.

"As flattered as I would be, I doubt you spend your afternoons waiting for me."

She laughed. "Dear, no. The grouch downstairs needs his money. I'm an intern."

"You work at the Ministry?"

"If you could call it that. I sit in on Court hearings and take notes."

"You're a scribe."

Vera waved her cigarette around, ash scattered in the wind. "My quill is a scribe, I just listen in."

"What is that like?"

She sighed. "Mostly boring: people charming things they shouldn't, breeding restricted creatures, exposure to muggles… they won't let me in on any of the fun hearings because I'm foreign," she added bitterly.

Tom stood to attention. How very interesting; Vera was a potential goldmine of information. Perhaps he'd been too hasty to refuse her advances.

"What are you interested in?" he asked, turning his body towards her. He had to pretend to be interested if he wanted to ask questions without looking suspicious.

Her eyes sparkled, like there was another Vera hiding behind the flirty persona she presented. This was something she was passionate about. "I want to be a part of it, sentencing, defending, even passing laws. Just listening is not enough."

"I'm sure you must be learning a lot, though."

"Not as much as I'd like. I can tell you all sorts about minor crimes, but the other courtrooms…" she trailed off, the light in her eyes dimming. "I'm sorry, I'm sure I'm boring you. I haven't even asked about you," she said, forcing her voice back into a purr.

Tom frowned, almost imperceptibly. Why was she hiding?

"My summer has not been nearly as interesting, I assure you," he replied, dragging his voice as if he were bored. He did not want the conversation focusing on him. "I've been helping some friends with their business, very tedious."

Vera's smile flickered. They both knew he was lying. She'd seen the blood the night before, but she didn't press the issue.

So they were both liars.

No wonder they were getting along swimmingly.

"That's a shame," she said finally, flicking away some more ash and looking away from him.

"If you must know, I have been coming and going from muggle London. There isn't much to see unless you are fascinated by rubble."

"It is dangerous right now," she whispered, her voice becoming serious again. Vera turned to face him again, a hint of the spark returning to her eyes. "We have been overflowing with cases of wizards using magic out there, mostly for protection but some of them are just trying to be nice and repairing muggle houses and things, and it makes everything worse. We are stretched thin."

"How do you deal with all of them?"

"Honestly?" she asked, leaning forward and lowering her voice as if to convey a dark secret. "We don't. We're sending out warnings left and right for the minor ones, and only taking the big ones to court. There's a queue, but it could be months before we get through everything. We try to prioritise cases where muggles had to be obliviated."

That explained why Tom had only gotten one warning. He mulled over her words in silence, wondering how far he could push the boundaries without any real repercussions.

"Three days," he said suddenly. His cigarette was almost gone.

"What?"

Tom turned his focus back on Vera, to find she'd cocked her head to the side and was watching him with puzzlement.

"My trip. I'll be back in three days. Four at most," he elaborated.

Vera smiled, slipping back into her flirtatious persona, but without losing her spark. "I thought we were strangers?"

"I rather think we are acquaintances now."

"Are we?" she smiled. "I'll be waiting."

Tom flicked away the butt of his cigarette. "I'll see you then."

He said good night, so did she. She didn't try to make another pass at him, and he went to bed. Alone.

History Trivia

Il Duce: It was the title that the Fascist Party gave Mussolini when he came into power. By 1943, shortly after Rome was bombed by the allies, King Vittorio Emmanuele and the Grand Council had decided that the war was lost. Mussolini "resigned" his position, but in truth he was voted out by the council and arrested. After that, the only question that remained was if Italy would continue to fight alongside the Germans, or if it would surrender to the allies.

Bombing of Hamburg: During the war, the RAF and the USAAF carried out air raids on various German cities, mostly on military targets. However, by 1941 the RAF stopped viewing civilian targets as collateral damage, and switched to deliberately targeting civilians to destroy morale. Hamburg was chosen by the allies because of its industrial importance, and because it was the second largest city in Germany. The raid lasted a week, and killed over 30,000 people, but the exact number was never known. It became a major news story at the time, and was constantly commented on in Britain because it was so shocking. I can't go into much detail or I will end up writing an essay about this, but it was one of the most intense raids of a war that had been escalating in violence for years. Justified? Right or wrong? It depends on perspective, I guess, but the debate rages on.

Troublesome Vocab

Pongy: Slang for smelly, stinky.

Macaroni: An offensive word for Italians used in the 40s. My Italian hubby found it hilarious, which is the only reason why I went ahead with it. Apologies to any Italians that might be reading this, I swear I love you, and it is not my intention to insult anyone, these characters are just awful people.

Additional Notes

Tom has been playing with fire.

In case anyone is wondering, I write with a map of London open in one of my tabs, and I cross reference it to a website called BombSight that recorded all the bombs that were dropped in the city. It is shocking, if you want to look it up. All the landmarks I mention are real, I know how much Tom has to walk everyday, and how long it takes him to do so. Let's just say he'll be really fit by the time he returns to Hogwarts.